Don't Look Now (32 page)
‘You will. Doesn’t matter how people get to know about you, it’s how you dazzle them once you’ve gotten their attention.’ He leaned forward and kissed her, gently, at the corners of her mouth. ‘And I
know
you’ll dazzle them.’
They clinked glasses one more time, sipped, then fell into each other’s arms for a few eager, impassioned moments.
Diana pulled back, smiling.
‘What?’ Paris asked.
‘Got two questions for you,’ she said, demurely now. ‘Personal ones.’
‘Okay.’
‘Did you think I was unbelievably forward our first night together? I mean, me showing up with condoms and controlled substances?’
Paris
had
considered the fact that she was rather predatory that night. But compared to the other things he had suspected her of, being forward was well within the confines of acceptable adult behavior. ‘Nah. I’m used to it. Women are always showing up in the middle of the night with rubbers and reefer. It’s why I had to get such a killer dog.’ Paris sipped from his glass. ‘And what was question number two?’
‘Have you ever done it in the trunk of a car?’ Diana burst out laughing, snorting once, bringing her hand to her mouth.
‘Criminally unhumorous, counselor.’
‘Oh yeah?’ She poked him with a stiff index finger. ‘Then why’d you smile?’
‘Because it was funny.’
Five minutes later, as Paris removed Diana’s blouse – the two of them adrift in the thrall of their new and strange and genuine ardour – Paris looked over her shoulder and thought of the door to room 419 at Cleveland Clinic, the veiled visage of Cyndy Taggart lying still in her hospital bed, her once perfect body plugged into machines, connected to IV bags, guarded by one of Cleveland’s finest.
An hour after that, as he and Diana lay near the chasm of dreams, Paris considered, as he sometimes would for years to come, the one photograph he had not taken with him to the Motel Riverview that night, the one that sat, at that moment, in a safe deposit box, in an envelope, in a twice-folded piece of bright white typing paper, all sealed up in an even bigger envelope.
A six-by-nine-inch envelope with a signature along the flap.
IT HAD BEEN
eight months since the last of the Pharaoh killings. The Swing Set had moved three times and the people of Cleveland had since voted to retain Mayor Michael R. Brown.
It was the Friday before the Wednesday that would be Christmas Day.
Seven forty-five p.m.
The phone rang and I answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Danny, it’s Jack Paris.’
Jack Paris was the cop who had killed Saila. Actually, he had lured her to a deserted parking-lot to do the job himself, but I had put the bullet in her. She did her actual dying in the hospital a week or so later – during my watch guarding her door, ironically, some sort of blockage in her respirator, I believe – but for all intents and purposes, Jack Paris had killed her.
I knew he’d call me, socially speaking. A lot of men hated me for my looks, my sense of style, my wardrobe, but, for the very same reasons, a lot of men wanted to be my friend, too.
The spillover and all.
‘Jack,’ I said, full of piss and vinegar and cop camaraderie. ‘How are you?’
‘Same shit, different diaper.’
‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas to you.’
‘What’s doin’?’ I asked, as if I didn’t know the answer. Once it gets under your skin, you see, you never really shake it. So I
knew
.
‘I was wondering,’ Paris said, ‘if you weren’t doing anything tonight, if you wanted to hit the Caprice. Or maybe go somewhere where the crowd has
active
DNA. Beachwood, maybe. You up for it?’
‘Jack,’ I said. ‘You have to ask?’
‘What do you mean?’
I laughed. ‘It’s
Friday
.’
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781409022015
Published by Arrow Books 2011
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Richard Montanari, 1995
Richard Montanari has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
‘I Feel So Good’ by Richard Thompson, copyright © 1991 Beewing Music.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published in 1995 by Simon & Schuster Inc (as
Deviant Way
)
First published in Great Britain in 1996 by Penguin Books Ltd (as
Deviant Ways
)
Arrow Books
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099524830
ISBN 9780099538721 (export)
